


When in Rome

by walkalittleline



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a bottom fight me if you disagree, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkalittleline/pseuds/walkalittleline
Summary: “Crowley?”“Hm.”“Have you ever… have you had sexual relations before?”Crowley nearly inhales the oyster he’s slurping into his mouth, swallowing it rapidly before staring incredulously across the table at Aziraphale, who’s not looking back at him, rather gazing off into the middle distance with a thoughtful frown.





	When in Rome

They’re both several cups of wine and at least a dozen oysters each into their meal when Aziraphale first brings up the topic.

“Crowley?”

“Hm.”

“Have you ever… have you had sexual relations before?”

Crowley nearly inhales the oyster he’s slurping into his mouth, swallowing it rapidly before staring incredulously across the table at Aziraphale, who’s not looking back at him, rather gazing off into the middle distance with a thoughtful frown.

“ _No,_ ” Crowley says, wrinkling his nose. “I have not… why, have _you?_ ”

Aziraphale still doesn’t look at him as he responds absently, “Mm, no... suppose I was just... when in Rome and all that…. Have you thought about it? Trying it?”

“ _Eh,_  hm, not... not really,” Crowley says honestly. “All those wet bits.” He pulls a face. “Don’t really see the appeal, if I’m honest.”

Aziraphale hums, still looking contemplative. Crowley isn’t sure he trusts the expression.

“I’d rather like to try it, I think,” Aziraphale says, turning to Crowley at last, looking resolute. “See what all the fuss is about.”

“Well, have fun,” Crowley scoffs, tipping an oyster at him before tilting his head back to drop it into his mouth. Aziraphale is looking at him closely when he straightens again. “What?” he says suspiciously.

“Well,” Aziraphale begins primly, fiddling with his cup, “I was just thinking. Rather than go through the trouble of trying to find another willing party, I thought… well, I thought _we_ could…”

“Could what?” Crowley says, narrowing his eyes.

“I thought,” Aziraphale says, folding his hands on the table in front of him, “that, perhaps, we could try it together.” He gives Crowley a hopeful look.

“You want us to—no, no, I am _not_ doing that.” Crowley shakes his head, waving his hand in dismissal of the notion. Where did Aziraphale get these silly ideas, anyway?

“Oh, come now, Crowley,” Aziraphale presses, “it can’t be all that bad. You know, humans don’t just do it for… for reproductive purposes. It’s supposed to be quite pleasurable.” He smiles the same way he has when he suggested they have oysters together.

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” Crowley mutters under his breath. He takes a fortifying gulp of wine, silently begging for Aziraphale to drop the matter. Of course, he couldn’t be so lucky.

“But, Crowley—“

“I am not having sex with you, angel,” Crowley hisses furiously, leaning over the table as he says it.

“Why _not_?” Aziraphale says, practically pouting now.

“Because it’s _disgusting_ ,” Crowley says, voice still lowered. “All that… wiggling and damp… _things_ touching.” He shudders. “Humans really do revolting things to each other.”

“Oh, _really_ ,” Aziraphale says, rolling his eyes. “I thought you’d be a bit more open-minded given it’s your lot tempting people into these hedonistic displays.”

“Well it’s not _me_ ,” Crowley says firmly.

“You’re not the least bit curious?” Aziraphale says insistently, “Even just once. Just to see what it’s like?”

Crowley sighs. He can feel his resolve wavering at the eager look on Aziraphale’s face. He never has been good at saying no to him.

“Please? Just once. For me?” Aziraphale says, pressing his palms together in a mock prayer that proves to be the final blow needed to crack Crowley’s will.

“Fine,” Crowley mutters reluctantly. He points his finger sternly across the table at him when he claps his hands together and smiles delightedly. “But if it’s disgusting, I’m out.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Aziraphale says dismissively. He pushes himself to his feet, quickly draining his cup of wine as he did.

“Wait, where are you going?” Crowley says as Aziraphale lays a few coins on the table and turns to leave.

“Have a few things to track down,” Aziraphale says excitedly. “Come to the home I’m staying at in say an hour, hm?” He rattles off directions to Crowley before hurrying off, Crowley watching him leave with a feeling of apprehension.

He finishes the rest of the wine—he thinks he’ll probably need it—before following the directions Aziraphale had given him to a large, sweeping home of stone and clay tile, rows of neatly manicured cypress trees up the front path. The front leads into a well-kept covered garden complete with several gurgling fountains, opening into a wide atrium partially open to the sky above, ringed in by the rest of the home, a shallow rectangular pool at the center below the opening in the ceiling.

“They are clever, aren’t they?”

Crowley starts and turns to see Aziraphale striding out of the house towards him, smiling benignly.

“Running water,” Aziraphale continues, nodding back to the fountains in the garden. “They’re quite innovative.”

“How did _you_ get a house like this?” Crowley says, peering around at the white marble columns around the atrium enviously and thinking of the tiny one room flat he was staying in temporarily.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale flushes guiltily, “the merchant who owns the home is out of town at his villa so, I thought, no harm popping in for a few days.”

Crowley gives him a dubious look that Aziraphale avoids. He clears his throat, expression relaxing after a moment into a wide smile as he sweeps his arm back towards the door he’d just come through.

“Shall we?” he says, looking to Crowley expectantly.

Crowley lets out a disinterested noise and Aziraphale clicks his tongue, frowning.

“You could be a bit more enthusiastic, you know,” he says as Crowley slouches past him into the home, which is as lavishly adorned as the garden and atrium.

Crowley flashes him a warning look. “Don’t push your luck, angel.”

Aziraphale huffs in annoyance but doesn’t press the issue, leading him to a spacious bedroom dominated by a large bed, the frame carved from pale wood and inlaid with what looked to be gold and ivory, laid with colorful lengths of linen and silk sheets. The walls are muraled in similarly bright colors, pale greens and blues and dusky red.

“It is extravagant, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says happily.

“Things might have changed since I left,” Crowley says, moving to run his hand over the footboard at the end of the bed, “but I thought the Almighty didn’t approve of this sort of indulgence.” He glances back at Aziraphale, smirking at his sheepish expression.

“Yes, well,” he begins shiftily, “it’s just temporary. What’s the harm in being comfortable if it’s just a few days?”

Crowley scoffs and turns back to the bed. There’s a small table set to one side, a small ceramic amphora sitting in the center.

“What’s that?” he says, nodding to the little container.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, sounding eager for the change of subject. “That’s what I was getting earlier.” He moves to the table and unstoppers the amphora, tipping it slightly so he can gather some of the contents on his fingers. It’s a slick, yellowish fluid, Aziraphale rubbing it between his fingers before sniffing the contents of the container with a pleased sound.

“Olive oil,” he says brightly. “They use it for everything around here, you know. I’ve been… asking around. Just out of curiosity, of course. Apparently it comes in handy for this sort of thing.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose in distaste but accepts the amphora when Aziraphale holds it out to him. He sniffs the contents warily, surprised at the delicate, almost floral scent of it.

“What do you do with it?” he says, dipping his pinky into the container and smearing the bit of oil over his fingertip.

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale begins, accepting the oil back and setting it on the table, “apparently it helps lubricate things.”

Crowley gives him an appalled look, seriously beginning to reconsider agreeing to this in the first place.

“Speaking of which,” Aziraphale continues, tone almost businesslike, “have you, ah...“ he glances downward before lifting his eyes back to Crowley’s in silent question.

“Oh, yeah, alright,” Crowley sighs reluctantly. He screws up his face in concentration for a few seconds, feeling his body adjust under his toga as he does.

“Ugh,” he shakes his head, adjusting the folds of fabric draped over him to be more comfortable with the changes, “hate doing that. How do humans deal with all those extra parts every day?”

“I’ve gotten rather used to them being here,” Aziraphale says mildly. “Can’t go into the baths without them without raising questions.”

“You know those baths are filthy, don’t you?” Crowley says, moving to touch lightly as the fabrics laying across the bed.

“Nothing a little miracle can’t fix,” Aziraphale replies haughtily.

“You use your miracles for clean baths and oysters and I’m the demon,” Crowley mutters under his breath. He clears his throat and turns to Aziraphale again. “Alright, let's get this over with.”

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkles and Crowley is sure he’s about to reprimand him for not matching his eagerness. He doesn’t though, forehead smoothing as says, “I suppose we ought to disrobe first. Oh, but wait,” he adds as Crowley is reaching for the snake brooch pinning his toga.

Crowley gives him an expectant look.

“Before that,” Aziraphale says, “would you rather—that is to say, would you _prefer_ —hm… inkpot or quill?”

Crowley squints at him in confusion. “Wha—I’m not putting any of this into any of that, if that’s what you mean.” He waves a hand at his own groin then at Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale looks faintly surprised by his response but doesn’t otherwise react.

“Well, that makes things a bit simpler,” he says brightly.

“Can I take this off now?” Crowley says, plucking at his toga.

“Please do,” Aziraphale says in that same cheerful tone, watching Crowley with an amiable smile as he unclips the brooch at his shoulder and shrugs off the draped fabric to allow it to pool at his ankles. He shivers at the chill of air against his bare skin.

Aziraphale makes a contemplative noise and Crowley looks up to see his eyes fixed on his crotch, head cocked to the side and lips pursed in consideration.

“What?” Crowley says suspiciously, glancing down at his newly manifested genitals, relieved when they look normal.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale replies with a shrug, smiling.

“Well go on,” Crowley says irritably, “yours, too.”

Aziraphale’s smile widens and he takes off the winged brooch pinning his own clothes up, slipping out of the fabric and folding it neatly, ignoring Crowley’s exasperated eye roll.

Crowley takes those few seconds to eye him over, realizing he’s never actually seen Aziraphale like this before. He’s softer around the stomach than Crowley thanks to the frequent indulgence in rich food and fine wine, no bony, narrow hips and lanky limbs. Not that that’s a bad thing. Crowley likes the body he’s put together for himself but he’s always felt a little scrawny compared to some of the stockier demons.

Aziraphale sets his folded robes aside and turns back to him, Crowley unable to stop his eyes from flicking downward curiously.

“Everything to your satisfaction?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley ignores him, rolling his eyes again and sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I believe that usually,” Aziraphale says, moving to sit next to him, their bare thighs brushing together, “things start with kissing.”

“ _Kissing_?” Crowley says, pulling a face. “What do they want to kiss for?”

“Sets the mood, I think,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. “Gets things going, so to speak. I’ve never tried it before, either,” he adds excitedly.

“Ugh, fine,” Crowley grumbles, turning his upper body towards him, flinching away when Aziraphale’s hand settles on his own where it’s laying on his thigh.

“Very jumpy today, aren’t you?” Aziraphale observes mildly.

Crowley opens his mouth angrily to respond only for Aziraphale to cover his lips with his own in a firm kiss. Crowley’s eyes widen in surprise as something swoops in his stomach, immediately followed by a sudden increase in the speed of his heartbeat. He pulls back, staring at Aziraphale accusatorially.

“What did you just do?” he says harshly.

“I kissed you,” Aziraphale replies, looking befuddled. “I said I—“

“Not that,” Crowley says, waving him off dismissively. “The other thing. The—“ he taps his hand to his chest but Aziraphale merely gives him a politely confused look.

“Sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale replies apologetically.

“Forget it,” Crowley mutters, shaking his head and wondering if he’d just imagined it.

Aziraphale gives him a wary look before leaning forward and kissing him again, his eyes sliding shut. Crowley’s more prepared for it this time but he’s still thrown off by what feels like a crackle of energy that makes something jump in his chest. He frowns but doesn’t pull away this time, allowing Aziraphale to press their dry lips together more carefully.

It’s not… bad, per se. It’s not exactly _good_ , either though. Just feels like skin touching apart from the temporary increase in his pulse that he still doesn’t understand. Aziraphale hums contemplatively and pulls back slightly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue and opening his eyes.

“You really should close your eyes,” he scolds, “and take _these_ off.” He reaches for Crowley’s glasses, giving him a stern look when he draws back. Crowley sighs and reluctantly allows him to pull off his glasses and the metal circlet from the top of his head, setting them both aside.

“And these ridiculous things,” Aziraphale says, ruffling the careful curls along Crowley’s temples, ignoring Crowley’s affronted sound. Aziraphale combs his fingers through Crowley’s short hair with a disappointed sigh. “I did like the long hair,” he says absently.

Crowley frowns, unsure what to make if this, but Aziraphale is already resting his hand on Crowley’s cheek and kissing him again. His lips are warm and slightly wet from his tongue running over them. Crowley closes his eyes begrudgingly, eyebrows raising when Aziraphale moves his lips against his own.

He does this for a few seconds before making a frustrated noise and murmuring, “Do what I’m doing, Crowley,” his breath hot against Crowley’s lips.

Crowley scowls as he kisses him again but does as he’s told, parting his lips to let them slide against Aziraphale’s. It’s nicer than what they were doing before, smoother with the added moisture of saliva. What he thinks is the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue teases across his lower lip and something jumps inside him again, this time much further down his body than before. He makes a small, involuntary noise in his throat and Aziraphale breathes out sharply against his lips before kissing him more enthusiastically, less cautious now that they’ve got somewhat of a rhythm down between them.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Crowley says when they break apart with a wet smack of lips a few minutes later. He feels oddly out of breath, his lips slightly swollen and tender from all the kissing.

“You pick things up,” Aziraphale replies lightly, not sounding nearly as breathless as Crowley feels.

“Thought you said you hadn’t tried it before?”

“I hadn’t,” Aziraphale says. His hand is still resting on Crowley’s cheek, warm and steady. “But not everyone who comes to the baths is particularly modest.”

Crowley pulls a disgusted face and Aziraphale chuckles, kissing him a final time before sitting up a little straighter in his seat.

“Why don’t you get on the bed?” he says, gesturing behind him. “Perhaps… yes, I think on all fours would be easiest.”

“What am I, a dog?” Crowley says waspishly, giving him a disbelieving look.

“Oh, _really,_ I’m just thinking practically,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley releases an annoyed sigh but scoots back on the bed, the feathered mattress compressing under him, and lifts up onto his hands and knees.

“Humiliating,” he mutters, glowering at the headboard as Aziraphale gathers the amphora of olive oil and crawls onto the bed behind him.

Crowley hears him pull the stopper free followed by a wet, slick sound, Crowley glancing back to see him coating his fingers with it.

“Why are you putting it on your fingers?” he says leerily.

“I can’t just… go all in right away,” Aziraphale says, “it would hurt. I have to, ah, prepare you.”

Crowley narrows his eyes suspiciously at him but faces forward again regardless. He—stupidly, probably—trusts Aziraphale. Trusts that he knows far more about all this than him at the very least.

“Might be a bit cold,” is all the warning he gets before Aziraphale’s fingertip is rubbing over the tight ring of muscle and pressing into him, cool and slick with oil. He starts at the touch, inhaling sharply and going stiff in surprise.

“How does it feel?” Aziraphale says with the air of someone asking about the day’s weather.

“Weird,” Crowley responds truthfully. It’s uncomfortable and foreign, not to mention embarrassing with how exposed he feels. He doesn’t understand why humans do this so willingly on a regular basis.

“Hm,” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, “perhaps if I…” He pushes his finger in further and Crowley has to force himself not to squirm away in discomfort.

“It’s not working, angel,” Crowley says, his entire body stubbornly tense, “we should just— _ah._ ” Aziraphale curls his finger inside of him and warm pleasure blooms out from the spot, unexpected and sudden.

“What was that?” Aziraphale says excitedly. “Did that feel different?”

“Mm, yeah, try doing it again,” Crowley responds. He closes his eyes, mouth falling open in an embarrassingly loud groan before he can stop it when Aziraphale repeats the motion and sends another wave of pleasure under his skin. He can feel his body starting to react to the touch.

“It must be working,” Aziraphale says cheerfully as he rubs the spot again, Crowley biting his lower lip hard to keep from groaning again. “You’re going erect.”

“Shut _up_ , angel,” Crowley growls through gritted teeth, arms trembling weakly as Aziraphale continues massaging the spot, pleasure shivering out from the point. 

“Right, sorry,” Aziraphale says brightly. “I’m adding another.”

Crowley closes his eyes at the dull aching stretch as Aziraphale adds his middle finger, his other hand holding his hip as his fingers twist and curl inside of him. It feels infinitely better than what Crowley has expected—although, to be fair, he’d had no expectation of enjoying any of this—heat spreading over his groin in an entirely unfamiliar way. His thighs shake under him every time Aziraphale moves his fingers a certain way and it’s getting increasingly difficult to stay silent. He can feel his erection heavy between his legs, throbbing each time Aziraphale crooks his fingers just so.

“Dammit,” he mutters when Aziraphale adds a third finger, warm and slick, the faintest burn of muscle quickly fading as Crowley focuses on the pleasure pulsing through him.

“You seem to be responding well,” Aziraphale says conversationally. Crowley starts when his other hand reaches between his legs to run his fingers curiously over Crowley’s erection. His hand withdraws only to return a few seconds later, this time wrapping fully around Crowley’s length, slippery and coated with oil.

“Peculiar,” Aziraphale says when Crowley’s whole body shudders and his mouth falls open in a pitched whine that he, not expecting the touch, can’t manage to stop.

He wants to tell Aziraphale to shut up again but it comes out more of a babble of sound when Aziraphale slides his fist up and down the length of him.

“Do you want to continue?” Aziraphale says. Crowley’s not sure if he’s teasing him or not given the fact that fifteen minutes ago the answer to the question would have been a vehement _no_ but now he would very much like to continue. He knows Aziraphale is never going to let him live down the fact that he’s enjoying it.

“Yeah,” he breathes, “oh, _God_.”

“She’s not here,” Aziraphale says. He’s definitely teasing him now, the amusement clear in his voice.

“ _Aziraphale._ ”

“Oh, alright,” Aziraphale says reluctantly. He pulls both his hands back and Crowley whines at the loss of touch. “How did you want to go about—“

“Lie on the bed,” Crowley says, already fully aware of exactly how he wants this to happen. He sits back in his thighs, feeling faintly weak with pleasure.

Aziraphale looks surprised by acquiesces, laying his head on one of the down cushions at the head of the bed. He’s erect like Crowley but he doesn’t seem nearly as affected by it all as him. In fact, Crowley doesn’t think he’d know anything was different if not for the faint flush on his cheeks. He’s not sure if he should feel discouraged by it or not. He’s too far gone now to care, really.

Aziraphale is still holding the container of oil, dripping some into his palm and reaching down to coat himself with it. A look of muted pleasure crosses his face as he does it, which Crowley takes as encouragement. Aziraphale stoppers the amphora again and sets it on the table before looking to Crowley expectantly.

“Right,” Crowley mutters. He swings one leg over Aziraphakes waist, jumping when Aziraphale’s hands settle on his hips.

“Just trying to help.” Aziraphale says. He smiles, raising one hand to brush his thumb under Crowley’s eye. “You really should wear the glasses less. I miss seeing your eyes.”

Crowley has no idea how to interpret this, instead reaching behind him to hold Aziraphale’s erection steady, planting his other hand on Aziraphale’s stomach, as he sinks down onto him, Aziraphale guiding him with his hand still on his hip.

It aches, that same dull burning stretch of muscle, but more than that it feels _good_ , better even than Aziraphale’s fingers, full and sending pleasure coursing out across his hips. He thinks later he’ll hate how good it feels but all he can do now is tip his head back, spine arching and eyes rolling back as his mouth falls open with a harsh exhale.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale breathes, voice wavering for the first time since they started, “oh, that’s… hm, that’s nice, Crowley.” 

Something pleased tickles the back of his brain at the praise and he shifts his hips to try and seat himself more fully against Aziraphale, eyes sliding shut blissfully.

“How does it feel?” Aziraphale says, sounding almost glibly detached to how strung out Crowley feels.

“Shut up,” Crowley mutters, eyes still closed.

Aziraphale makes a soft _tsk_ with his tongue, his fingers stroking lightly over Crowley’s heated cheek before dropping to rest on his hip like his other hand. He tightens his grip on Crowley’s hipbones and helps ease him up, murmuring a soft, “there you go,” when Crowley catches on and lifts his hips a few inches with his help before sinking back down again.

Pleasure pulses over his hips at the friction and he digs his fingernails into the soft skin of Aziraphale’s stomach, breathing hard through his gritted teeth. He raises and rolls his hips down again with the help of Aziraphale’s hands guiding him, taking a few stilted, uncoordinated movements before picking up a steady rhythm like they had with the kissing. He can’t look at Aziraphale, who’s watching him with an expression of mild interest, like Crowley is a particularly fascinating book.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, little shocks of pleasure running through him every time he settles his hips down again, something unfamiliar building in his core, a slow crescendo leading to some unknown conclusion that he wants, _needs_ to reach.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, sounding faintly concerned, “your wings.”

Crowley forces his eyes open, glancing back over his shoulder, surprised to see the glossy black feathers of his wings unfurling from his back, sprouting forth and rustling gently. He lets his eyes fall shut again, focusing instead on the movement of his hips, his wings stretching out before wrapping themselves forward. He shivers, stifling a moan, when Aziraphale’s hands leave his hips and run delicately over the long, black feathers at the tips of his wings.

He’s careening towards something rapidly, can feel it coiling inside him like a snake preparing to strike, edging so close it almost hurts.

“You are stunning, Crowley,” Aziraphale says in a soft, awed voice, carding his fingers through Crowley’s feathers carefully.

Crowley’s not sure if it’s the touch or Aziraphale’s words that do it, but something shifts and white-hot pleasure skitters up his spine, his wings extending fully in a rush of air and quivering as he plants his hands on Aziraphale’s stomach to keep from falling forward entirely.

The heat fades slightly and he sags heavily, wings drooping limply at sides. His thighs burn from the effort of lifting his weight, his chest heaving with each labored breath, sweat beading on his forehead. Aziraphale’s fingertips graze lightly across his jaw and he flinches away automatically in surprise, relaxing when Aziraphale shapes his hand reassuringly over his cheek.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says gently, caressing the side of his face. 

Crowley can’t help but lean into the touch, chasing the coolness of his fingers on his overheated skin. Aziraphale withdraws his hand after a moment and Crowley frowns, opening his eyes to see Aziraphale instead gathering up some of the opaque liquid smeared across his stomach curiously. It takes Crowley a few seconds to realize it has come from _him_ and he wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Interesting,” Aziraphale says, rubbing it between his fingers before lifting his hand to sniff the liquid, touching his fingertips to his tongue with a thoughtful hum.

“That’s disgusting, angel,” Crowley mumbles, though there’s no bite to his words. He trembles feebly, feeling suddenly exhausted, and raises his hips just enough to lift off Aziraphale so he can collapse weakly onto the bed, the sheets cool under him and his wings flopping behind him.

Aziraphale turns onto his side to face him, smiling with that same bright enthusiasm that makes Crowley want to roll away from him. He settles instead for curling one of his wings around himself to cover his bare skin, the bend hiding the lower half of his face so he can peer at Aziraphale suspiciously over the sleek black feathers.

“You take very good care of them,” Aziraphale says absently, petting his hand over the edge of his wing. 

“I do have standards, angel,” Crowley mutters. He sighs and lets his wing relax to uncover his face, keeping it draped over his body if only for the warmth.

Aziraphale’s expression softens slightly, eyes fixed on his fingers where they’re still tracing down the long pinion feathers fanned across the bed.

“That was a fascinating experiment, don’t you think?” he says at last, looking to Crowley with another broad smile.

Crowley rolls his eyes.

“You seemed to enjoy it,” Aziraphale says happily. “I’d like to see what that’s like next time.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley snaps, embarrassment prickling hot over his face. “And who said anything about a _next time_?”

“So… you don’t want to do it again?” Aziraphale says, sounding faintly disappointed.

“I didn’t say that,” Crowley replies, keeping his voice carefully measured. He’s not about to give Aziraphale the satisfaction of knowing how much he wants to experience that again. He sniffs and shrugs nonchalantly. “I’ll think about it.”

Aziraphale beams at him.


End file.
